I’m no foreigner to culture shock. It happens every time I leave my house. Not everyone grew up in a home schooled family of five, this I’ve learned. But it still surprises me.

Part of not being raised by the government means my knowledge of pop culture (often the bread & butter of modern conversations) is shockingly deficient, unless it is referencing the hip culture of days gone by. If I was any better at math than I am at pop culture trivia, I could tell you how many times conversations start with, “Heidi, I’m sure you haven’t seen this, but everyone else listen up …” Let’s just suffice it to say it happens mucho times.

My perpetual state of outsider-ness took on a new dimension when I traveled to New York City this spring. I’d been wanting to break my mom’s heart for quite some time, so I decided to get my first tattoo. For the design, I couldn’t decide between a list of previous boyfriends or my Instagram follower count because the ridiculously high numbers of each made it seem like flagrant bragging.

So I decided to go the humble route with a lovely ancient Christian cross that holds great significance for me. Plus, it would soften the blow for my mom.

My skin was already weeping under the muggy NYC air and the thought of its impending mutilation by the time I arrived at the tattoo parlor, which detracted from the cool & detached aura I was trying to achieve. As I wiped the excessive sweat from my eyes, I was immediately assaulted with fabulous decorating tips for when I start my business of redecorating morgues: paint as if black is the only available color and scatter a few choice skeletons (preferably animals) as wall art and viola! You’ve created a safe and inviting atmosphere that will encourage people to trust you with permanently changing their body.

Ever aware of manners in an increasingly discourteous age, I kindly insisted that my accompanying friend receive her tattoo first. That way, I could assess the procedure while keeping one eye on the door and make a dignified escape if the carnage got out of control. Unfortunately, she survived unscathed and I had no excuse not to proceed. As the moment of permanent transfiguration arrived, the sweating rose to tsnaumi levels and only by some divine miracle was I able to seat myself on the chair without slipping off.

But I should have known that when the actual tatooing began, I would face it with my typical inspiring courage and panache. Once there was no going back, my fear melted away like a muggy Alabama evening. My erect posture and the fearless glint in my eyes more than redeemed my sweaty, deer-in-headlights entry. It is very probable that every person in that tattoo parlor was eyeing me with breathless respect.

As my fear-induced haze lifted, I began to notice my surroundings again, particularly the music. Apparently, until this day I didn’t actually know what rap was. I always thought it was Usher and the like. But now my ears wiggled with a new sensation: their first exposure to real rap. In case you’re also fortunate enough to not know what rap is, let me explain:

1. Someone bangs on a surface to create a steady, solid beat.
2. Over that, a talented soul swears. Explicitly.
3. Repeat until all the swear words in the world have been used up

As the profanity began to drill a hole into my soul, I squeaked in astonishment, “Is this rap music??!” And just like that, my painfully-won cool status vanished. Every tattooed head in that parlor swiveled around to stare at me incredulously, their mocking eyes querying, “Where have you been your whole life??” Ummmm … listening to artists who don’t operate as if the f-bomb is a verb, adjective, noun, pronoun, adverb, preposition, article, sonnet, prayer, etc. An astounding accomplishment for a puny, four-letter word, really. Hats off to the f-bomb. You’re f#*%ing amazing.

In the end, we all got a good chuckle out of my cultural naivette, I left with a million expletives to expunge from my mind, and my mom hasn’t disowned me. Yet.

I adore traveling. I just wish I could bring my bedroom with me. Yes, I am one of those obnoxious people who requires a meticulously controlled environment in order to sleep.

However, the lure of lush, rolling Irish fields and fresh Parisian baguettes proved stronger than my lust for sleep, so my friend and I trotted off to Europe with our American-sized backpacks stuffed with travel essentials: Cliff bars and grandiose, overly-romantic expectations.

First stop: the bonny hills of Ireland.

First misconception shattered: English is English, wherever you go.

Hoping to ease into the foreign language experience by commencing our European jaunt with an English-speaking country, I was flummoxed to discover that I didn’t understand a word from the Irish. I knew we were speaking the same language … it just didn’t sound like it. It literally sounded like Mandarin to me. Is there a Rosetta Stone Irish course for English speakers?

After an eternity of wandering through the cobblestone streets of Dublin, we arrived at our hostel. Note to travelers: booking hostel lodgings is similar to online dating. No matter how nice the fellow is, you don’t know what his family is like until it’s too late. Our hostel was tolerable enough, as far as hostels go. It was our roommate that would prove to be troublesome.

Following a refreshing cleanse of travel grime (courtesy of the bathroom floor, which was a standing lake), we settled into our room and cheerfully made small talk with one of our roommates, a Polish fellow, who unfortunately turned out to be a Potential Roommate #1: The Crazy Gabber.

Small talk evolved into big talk, as he proceeded to tell us his entire life story. Unlike Irish English, I lamentably understood every word of Polish English, down to each excruciating detail of how he was working in Ireland in order to send money to his impoverished Polish family. A charming story, really; just not after 24 hours of being awake.

Eventually, the now-pressing need for sleep overwhelmed our good manners, and we stopped responding to him. He kept talking. We told him to shut up. He kept talking. In a sleep-deprived delirium, I threw my water bottle at him, hoping the physical force would convey the verbal message he obviously wasn’t understanding.

I don’t feel guilty about that act of violence. He deserved it, and besides, it was filtered water. It was probably good for him.

And still, the relentless fiend kept gabbing. Finally, we resorted to ‘playing dead.’ I can sympathize with hunted animals on a whole new level now: the clammy desperation, the dread of blowing your cover, the rustlings of the nearby hunter, the chilling sound of the weapon cocking (which in this case was a verbal flood that threatened to implode my brains with the ferocity of a bullet).

It worked. His torrent of verbal vomit slowed, when he finally realized we must be dead. No point in wasting a riveting story on corpses!

The next morning, we requested and moved to a private room. After spending the day jaunting about Dublin, we returned to the hostel to find our Polish friend speaking loudly to the receptionist, and then viciously point at us when we entered. The receptionist asked where we had been that day.

Apparently, 2,000 euros had been stolen from Polish Man’s locker in our former room the night we shared it with him. We appeared highly suspicious, as we requested to move to a different room after the robbery occurred. Thankfully, they realized we were Americans and the Marines would launch an international rescue operation if they so much as fined us, so we got off the hook.

Thoroughly scarred by our hostel experience, we opted for hotels for the rest of our European adventure. They say the best part of traveling is the people you meet and the stories you hear. I generally agree, with the caveat that the bonding occurs in a pub, or on a subway – NOT in your bedroom.

So how does she make the most of her tiny tenure here on Earth? By eating, pooping and sleeping all day long. We can learn much from her.

Here are a few of the sage life lessons I’ve learned from observing the little furball:

1. It’s ok to never change your bad habitsThe people who truly love you will always be there to cover your blunders and clean up the aftermath of your mistakes. If they require you to change and grow, remove them from your life. They are toxic and demanding.

2. Eating is the road to happinessIf you’ve been told anything else, you’ve been fooled. Eating is about the only thing Clover does, and she is remarkably free of depression, anxiety and stress. I suspect Clover took her philosophy directly from the Holy Scriptures (I catch her meditating – i.e. pooping – on my Bible between her 100 daily meals). 1 Corinthians 15:32 states: “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.”

rt3waq11111111111a66666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666s` (< this happened when Clover took over my keyboard. I knew she had a writer in her! Stay tuned for her upcoming poetry collection on the meaninglessness of life in a cage.)

3. If you’re desperate enough, you can find love anywhereFor the affection-starved, those bunny nibbles are actually miscommunicated kisses. My desperate desire for Clover’s affection has persuaded me that her frantic struggles are not indications of dislike; rather, they are just her bunny way of reciprocating my loving gestures.

I came to this conclusion primarily out of delusion, but also because I’ve observed that in human relations, gestures of love can often be misinterpreted by the recipient. For example: you snap at someone, but only because you miss them and are hurt by their lack of attention. With that in mind, finding love is a whole lot easier. Just stop being so sensitive and lower your standards!

4. Being small and cute is the ticket to getting people to love youBeauty is only fur deep. If you are tiny and cute on the outside, people won’t care what you are like on the inside. Time to lose weight and start saving up for plastic surgery! Should be much easier than wasting time on developing myself into a loving and interesting person.

5. Being lazy paysFood, water and shelter just show up magically everyday if you only let go and stop worrying. Again, my fuzzy little philosopher forges her paradigm from the Bible: “Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will care for itself.”

6. Bathing daily is unnecessaryClover washes herself daily. Many humans have told me I should do so as well.

However, keep in mind that Clover also frolics in her poop and pee daily. The only time I’m covered in pee is when she kicks her filthy little paws in my face (sometimes I wonder if it’s truly an accident). I won’t draw the obvious and incriminatory parallel to the bathing-once-a-day- proponents. You can do it yourself.

Side note: if I didn’t have to undress to wash, I might do it daily, too!

7. Bribing your children is the only way to earn their affection
My bunny has taught me that your children will reject your love, no matter how much you sacrifice for them. ALWAYS.

They are ungrateful, selfish and disdain your reasonable requests for cuddles. (Oh gosh, I might have just reasoned myself out of having having kids).

I never thought I’d endanger an entire species. It horrifies the small sliver of my soul that still cares about things other than myself, yet also tickles my ego with the tiniest of feathers. Even if it’s for an abominable reason, if it catches the attention of PETA, then at least I am doing something noteworthy!

I’m the cause of the bee shortage. I’m hunting those poor little creatures and squeezing their precious life juice out for selfish me. The juice goes in a needle, then the needles goes in me.

Oh, you haven’t heard of bee venom therapy?? Earth to you … helllooooooo. Where have you been, hiding under the Rock of Myopic Western Medicine? I predict Bee Venom Therapy will soon surpass Prozac as the most common panacea for all of mankind’s maladies.

Anyway, back to the dead bees. I actually don’t extract the venom myself. That’s too grisly for a classy lady like me. A farmer out in the idyllic wilds of Canada lovingly raises the bees on an organic, range-free, grass-fed (insert more healthy buzz words) farm, tenderly nurturing them, naming and cherishing each as his own offspring.

Then when the time comes for them to sacrifice their lives for the noble cause of human health, he gently hand milks the venom from their surrendered bodies, drenching their lifeless forms with his awed tears of respect.

A wee bit of hyperbole might be lurking in that description, but most of it is true (with the exception of the naming and tears). The costly juice is then shipped to my doctor, who – like a fleshy and soft large bee that has lost his wings – stings me with a man made needle full of the venom. It feels unsurprisingly like … a bee sting, over and over.

Aside from a perfectly natural desire to exterminate the human race by destroying the pollinators of their food, you might be pondering why I would undergo such a delightful experience. The answer goes back to more needles.

I’ve been subjecting myself the last few months to neural therapy, which is a euphemism for “Stab Every Sensitive Part of Your Body with Needles in Hopes That It Makes You Feel Better”, in an attempt to rid myself of a chronic headache. Exchange pain for pain, right?

The treatment goes something like this:

1. One week before appointment: Start panicking. Ponder all the sufferings of humanity to keep things in perspective:

2. Night before appointment: get no sleep

3. During appointment: Lose an hour and a half of oxygen as I hold my breath for dear life while my face, neck, arms, back and mouth are injected with anesthetic and ozone:

Thankfully, it works, when all other remedies failed. I’ve grown to like needles so much (false) that I decided to expand the treatment to include bee venom injections, which allegedly mitigate pain.

So little bees, you have not died in vain. If your precious juice restores my life, I promise to devote all my newfound energy to creating a bee sanctuary out in the wilds of Canada, where bees will be free to do whatever it is that bees do, far from grasping human hands.

In the meantime, I have a very itchy back that would love some scratching, if any of you are in a philanthropic mood. I’m seriously considering renting it out to cats as a scratching post.

I haven’t been that humiliated since I farted in the middle of a very quiet yoga class.

Here’s why:

Language is the most immediate gauge of intelligence. Articulate, well-spoken people are quickly marked as boasting a robust cerebral aptitude. Conversely, those with an anemic command of the spoken word are viewed as weaker between the ears, regardless of their true mental prowess.

Case in point: carpe diem (Latin for ‘seize the day’) and YOLO (‘you only live once’) mean essentially the same thing, but even Einstein couldn’t pull off the latter without looking like a twerp:

An avid reader, I’ve long admired prodigious vocabularies and golden tongues in others, and yearn for the same in myself. I dream of the day when 99% of my sentences are indecipherable to the common man.

Or, rather: “I envisage the diurnal course when the preponderance of my colloquy are esoteric to the plebeian hordes.”

Sexy, right? The more cryptic you are, the more attractive you are.

But lest I grow pompous because I know the meaning of ‘lassitude’ and ‘laconic’, life decided to sock it to me where it hurt the most. Words, those beautiful words I love so, are proving to be my downfall.

Perhaps it was being at my old place of employment, Safeway, that threw me off kilter. Maybe the ghosts of work shifts past spooked me. It’s also plausible that standing in a pharmacy line of a conventional grocery store with nothing but processed foods in sight flummoxed the health freak in me.

Regardless, there I was, standing in line at the Safeway pharmacy, waiting to pick up my decidedly non-organic drugs. It’s a charmingly simple process, really. You walk up, state confidently, “I am here to pick up a prescription for (insert your name),” and then you’re done. All you have to do after that is listen to the pharmacist recite the extensive list of terrifying and deadly side effects, most of which are worse than your actual malady.

So up walks Heidi Wells, Vocab Snob, and confidently states,

“I am here to pick up a puhhhh… puhhh … puhhh… puh… puhhh puhhh…”

… I couldn’t say it.

I literally couldn’t get the word ‘prescription’ out. I stuttered and stammered, until a few sweaty and traumatic seconds later I decided to cut my losses and just hastily slurred over the word, ending defeatedly with an apologetic, yet clear “Heidi Wells.” If the pharmacist couldn’t understand the rest of my sentence, she could at least know which loser the drugs were for.

Verbal stumbling has emerged slowly over the last year for me, in conjunction with other health problems. Due to some cosmic inequality, if you’re a pop star, repetitious, stutter-like lyrics land you on the top 100 chart. For non-famous me, it landed me squarely with the YOLO crowd.

While I was writing this post, the stumble struck again, just to rub it in. This time, it was at a restaurant, where I was relishing a very grown-up lunch date with a former boss of mine. When it came time to order beverages, I cheerfully asked for a ‘peppermint pee’, instead of ‘peppermint tea’.

Ummmm … peppermint tea eventually becomes pee, so I was just thinking ahead??? I might need to take up sign language, as I apparently can’t go anywhere without embarrassing myself.

Underneath the flushed cheeks and embarrassment, I know there is a valuable lesson lurking here. When an outside invader wraps its grimy fingers around something you dearly love, you can either thrash about with the invisible foe, or take a good, deep inhale of all the joys that you still have, and release with a laugh those you are called to relinquish. I earnestly hope my health issues retire soon, but if they don’t, I hope with equal earnestness that I can accept with grace the lot I have been given. Why not choose to be happy, because as they say: “YOLO!”

In the meantime – Safeway, could you please establish an online pharmacy? It would spare me a lot of embarrassment. Thuh thuh .. thuh .. thanks!

Like most people, I eventually turned 21. Unlike most people, I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I’ve never liked alcohol. Don’t get me wrong – I relish splitting head aches, massive bar tabs and exploding livers just as much as anyone else. I appreciate real fun.

What I don’t care for is the taste. Seriously, it’s gross. It’s what I imagine pouring toilet bowl cleaner down my throat would taste like. A cute little umbrella and sugar around the rim don’t fool this girl. It still belongs in the toilet.

However, in order to maintain a normal adult social life, I knew I would have to acclimate to alcohol. So on my 21st birthday, perched in a very-grownup booth, I timidly ordered the first drink of my grand new life: a pineapple alcohol-something, generously dressed with sugar. It sounded like a dessert, so I assumed it would be an easy start.

All my fellow partiers were contentedly sipping their drinks when my grunts of disgust commenced.

Back it went to the bar, to reemerge diluted with more pineapple juice.

And so this scenario repeated several times, each resulting in me nearly perishing of disgust. In retrospect, the drink must have been 110% pineapple juice by the end, but my sensitive palette just couldn’t take it.

Well, this was quite a pickle. One can’t leave the scene of their 21st birthday bash without finishing a beverage. As I was not intoxicated at that point, I was thankfully was able to concoct a clever alternative: I would just order a full glass of frothy milk! Genius. My taste buds would be appeased and I would maintain my cool image.

So that’s exactly what I did. I drank a glass of milk at my 21st birthday celebration. To this day, it’s the best drink I’ve ever ordered at a bar. My liver and bones agree.

I suspect there are many others who agree with me about the superior delights of drinking milk while out on the town… primarily 1-yr olds.

Those older than 1 year? Perhaps not so much.

It’s been 8 years since that full glass of white goodness, and I still struggle to down any alcoholic beverage not steeped in sugar. Yet still, concerned family and friends continue to insist I give alcohol another chance.

And another one.

And another one.

“Oh, you just have to give it time! You’ll adapt to it!”

That’s like saying you should give that horrible boyfriend another chance. You might just get used to him!

Am I really that boring sober? Why would I force myself to acclimate to a thing I can’t stand? I can understand the concept when it comes to showering or work (things that I actually might need at some point in my life), but booze? Why bother? I already have enough trouble not slurring my speech or walking straight.

Most days, I eat like a monastic rabbit. For those times when I do feel the urge to abuse my body with junk food, here are a few of my favorite rationalizations:

1. Kill bacteria with alcohol

Most modern guts are rife with bacteria that lead to a slew of health problems. Annihilate those suckers with hearty doses of bacteria-killing booze. Alcoholic drinks are also part of a plant-based diet, and no one can claim that isn’t healthy!

If you wake up the next morning with a raging headache, that just means the bacteria is putting up a fight as it leaves your body. Don’t stop drinking!

2. Prevent aging with salt

Do you long for guts that are as eternal as the Sphinx and never age? Who doesn’t?? Salt preserves your innards so you can eat garbage forever and look hot while you’re doing it. Stop focusing on outward appearance and instead cultivate an inner bloom. As they say: true beauty comes from within.

Potato chips for a long and sexy life!

3. Bolster your immune system with sugary delights

I’ve heard this line of reasoning from so many people uneducated about health that it must be true: If you consume a lot of sugar, you build an immunity to its adverse effects. Conversely, restricting sweet substances in your diet leads to a weakened immune system, because your body doesn’t know how to fight sugar.

Yep. I’m buying that logic.

4. Skip college and eat more fries

Diets high in fat have been linked to increased intelligence. Book your next birthday party at KFC and always, always keep donuts on hand for quick, on-the-go brain treats.

5. Save yourself from a life of delinquency with pop

Everyone is addicted to something. Anyone who claims they aren’t is actually addicted to not being addicted. Succumbing to the enslaving reign of pop eliminates the draw to become hooked on more dangerous substances like drugs or exercise.

6. Chew gum and reduce crime

If you are self-absorbed and don’t care about society, excessive gum chewing also sculpts your jaw line. After a few weeks of vigorous chewing, you can give up exercise all together!

If you feel you could have a problem with not eating enough junk food, seek the help of a qualified dietician or speak to your local doctor. I’ve done what I can to nullify your conscience – the rest is up to you!

One of my super powers is that I have an ego the size of Russia, which compelled me to read Leo Tolstoy’s hefty War and Peace twice, back to back.

I was 18, and like all other 18-yr olds, was spring breaking in Cancun, drinking and reveling in first world debaucheries. And by Cancun, I mean family vacation at Seaside, OR, modestly clad against the chilly Pacific coast weather in sweatpants and hoodies.

During the day, to recover from the previous night’s rowdy board games and early retirement, I was plowing through War and Peace. A respectable 800 pages, saturated with monologues and prosaic descriptions of the chariots of Napoleon’s army, it’s an understatement to say that I was pleased with myself upon completing the tale.

With great pride, my father boasted to my family how commendable it was that an 18-yr old read War and Peace purely for pleasure – and on her vacation to boot. Soon my aunts, grandma and others fortunate enough to be related to me were notified that there was a genius in the family.

Riding on a cloud of euphoria much like Napoleon must have ridden his chariots into Russia, I basked in the glow of my relatives’ admiration. It almost made up for the lack of basking I was doing on the sunless Pacific coast.

However, similar to the quick demise of the French army at the hand of the cruel Russian winter, my bookish triumph rapidly faded when I discovered I had read the abridged version, while my relatives thought I read the unabridged. I could never face them again with any dignity! This nerdy victory was all I had: I was a terrible athlete, didn’t play any musical instrument and was never valedictorian, because there is no such thing as a home school valedictorian.

Clearly, my only option was to immediately read the unabridged version, so that 20 years from now at our family reunion, when everyone is still talking about my feat in hushed, awed voices, I can hold my head high.

So back to 19th century Russia I trudged. Oh, how painful it was. Reading 1,400 pages of a verbose Russian tale that one has just read is the closest thing to mental torture I have ever experienced. Besides trying to remember the increasingly cryptic password for my computer.

But I did it, with only minimal cerebral trauma.

My ego has thankfully shrunk since then – not due to any maturing on my part – but because a decade has passed since I read the book twice and I can’t remember a word of it. Now my only shot at maintaining the worship of my relatives is skipping every family gathering so they can’t query me about the book.

But whatever will they talk about if not my teenage accomplishment? Certainly not their own lives or boring stuff like that.

Good grief, do I have to read it again for the sake of my family??! NooooooooooOOOOoooooOOOoo!

My future chef husband, here is how I am surviving the kitchen before you:

1. Leave dishes in the dishwasher perpetually

Recently I was unloading the dishwasher and came across a few items that I didn’t know where to put. So I did the obvious: left them in for another wash. And then another. At that point inertia took over and I thought, “Why not do this all the time?”

It is not a coincidence that when asked which Disney princess I would be, I choose Belle every time. (Yes, 28-yr olds still discuss their alter-Disney egos.) Her dishes danced, sang and put themselves away. Why are mine so lazy and inanimate?

2. Eat food straight out of the container

So many foods come packaged in containers perfectly suited for eating out of – why move them to another vessel simply for the sake of old-fashioned convention? Modern society is practically forcing us to be lazy, and it’s arrogant to fight progress.

3. Recycle your dishes

If you MUST be a weirdo and eat from actual dishes, but aren’t sly enough to implement the above dishwasher trick, try using the same dishes all the time to avoid cleaning them. With all the preservatives in food these days, you don’t even need to worry about antiquated fears like bacteria or mold.

You will lose the respect of your loved ones who aren’t smart enough to understand this science, but who needs respect and love when you have so much extra time on you hands?

4. Let food crumbs fall on your clothes

If you think about it, clothes are a convenient, always-available bib. Assuming that you wear clothes, letting food fall on your fashionable ensemble saves time otherwise spent cleaning the counter.

For the fashion conscious, wear clothes that match the color of the food you are eating that day. Also, if you are trying to keep a food diary, it’s a great way to log your dietary intake.

(I would not recommend this tip for first dates. On the second date, test out the waters by slyly flicking a small morsel of food on your date’s shirt. Upon finding it, if they react with embarrasment, they’re a pretentious jerk and you shouldn’t date them. If they laugh about it with only a casual attempt to brush off the food, you’ve found a keeper. Leave their number for me in a comment below, please.)

Gosh, my future husband better show up quick before I turn into an unrecognizable, food-encrusted blob whose blouse puts food hoarders to shame. You say the apocalypse is imminent? I say bring it on. I have enough morsels in my attire to keep me nourished for months!